RITES OF PASSAGE
I’d always associated these with youth, mostly as a milestone marking the transition from child to adult. Menstruation in girls, boys’ voices croaking. Or it might be drinking your first pint or your first kiss.
But not exclusively so. Further along the ageing path would come the menopause or wearing beige.
But it had always been a source of pride for me that I had got to the age of 67 and had never needed pills of any kind (apart from the odd paracetamol for back or headache). Recently however, as part of an investigation into possible cancer (mercifully, clear) I was diagnosed with an enlarged prostate.
This is very common in older men and tamsulosin is routinely prescribed to relax this gland to make pissing easier. And so I broke my duck and I am now on a repeat prescription.
A rite of passage, see? Quite literally in my case.
Or, to be more accurate still, a rite of restricted passage.